


the penetrating wound

by LittleRaven



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Captivity, F/F, Frottage, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:24:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/pseuds/LittleRaven
Summary: Absolute, alone.





	the penetrating wound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



> Title and summary are quotes from the First Slayer's speech to Buffy in the episode "Restless." 
> 
> I was thrilled with your prompts; thank you for the chance to write them!

Another day, another apocalypse. Figures she wouldn’t get just one hell-bitch to deal with; Buffy was barely back on her feet and somewhat stable when the next one comes in with her batch of worshipers.   
At least, she reflects, they aren’t as gross as the last. She appreciates the horned helmets and the glowing eyes. Feels traditional. There’s something to be said for aesthetics. 

She dodges a hit, then stops. Her skin is cold. She’d been warmed by the familiar exertion, and something had cut right through it. She has a breath to call for a retreat before taking a hit in the stomach. 

There should be a hole in her stomach. Buffy can’t find it with her hands; she can feel it, a solid ball of pain. One gasp. Two gasps. She’s up. Her hands aren’t wet. Sword’s back in them. She grits her teeth through the dizziness. They heard her. They had to. Now she has to do her part. 

There are eyes watching her. Cold. She holds them, lunging, forward, feeling the force vibrate through her as the weapon is blocked by an armored arm. She bares her teeth at the smile on that face. 

There’s another arm reaching and as Buffy draws away a hand around her throat, her feet lifting off the ground, she’s flying—the pain is sharp. 

 

Metal. Buffy tastes before anything else. Tastes and hurts. She swallows the blood in her mouth, feels the teeth; rattled, she remembers, but all there. Her hands scrabble on the floor—she can scarcely think, but it feels like a floor—and hold her steady. For a moment. She pushes herself off, to her feet, where she can stare straight ahead at whatever’s coming. Or waiting. 

Those eyes are there again. Hard as the throne under the woman who owned them, the hall she’d been dumped in. Buffy refuses to look around. Gotta keep her head focused. Can’t let the dizziness win. Or her. 

Her breaths come at a cost, healing trying to keep up. But if she can just keep her eyes straight. 

If she can move fast enough, in one burst—

“Good. For a moment I thought you might disappoint me.” The woman stands, and, in the moment Buffy takes her next breath, she’s there, too close, that cold piercing through her again, this time from the tips of the nails pressing against the back of her neck, the fingers firm. Not tight, but almost there, pressing. They could hold her up if she falls, stop her breathing with a crush. 

They could do anything, and another shiver goes down from that touch. 

At least she’s not sweating. 

Her hands reach for the grip around her throat, legs kicking at the armored stomach for leverage, and she has no time to cherish the look of surprise, barely notes the hint of pleasure, she’s kicking again, now at the head, now her own head hits the floor again, her ankle up in the air, squeezed tight enough to break if she tries to twist. 

“Very good.”

Her foot is dropped. Buffy’s back to breathing again. Just breathe. She can manage that. It comes before anything else. 

“I always liked your kind, limited though you are. The men who made you lacked the vision to follow through on your potential. I can help you with that.”

She steps on Buffy’s hair, leans down to pet it. 

“Then you might even be a threat. You’re welcome.”

Her nails graze Buffy’s scalp, the side of her face, and it’s the only feeling there is as her mind goes out again. 

 

The next time Buffy sees Hela, she is on her knees. It keeps her up. The chains on every limb aren’t even doing most of the job by now; her body has given her enough to move, and she jerks at the wall. Figures she wouldn’t go for the standard equipment. She leans forward, head drooping from the effort, panting, lungs tight in her chest. Time. She needs more time. 

Her head is raised again when the familiar cold hits. She slows her breathing, stops the gasps. 

There’s one thing they share. They don’t like weakness. The disappointment in Hela’s eyes would be an echo of her own; Buffy looks and measures herself by the gradations of her approval. She catches the thought, breathes a bit too quickly and Hela’s good at catching too, feeling that breath with the hand on her jaw, on her chin, on her dry lips. 

She really misses chapstick. She misses being clean. She misses—she can’t miss anything, has to stop thinking, with the look in Hela’s eyes. 

“Well. It took some time. But it looks like we understand one another. You’re lucky. I’m not usually this patient.”

Hela tugs at her hair. “I suppose it’s not your fault. All that power, tucked away by your mortal world. And you’re barely aware of it. You just need a little reconditioning.” She lets the hair go, walks off. 

 

She has a bath. It’s bright and big after the confines of her cell. Hela had brought here herself, unbound her. Buffy had waited, done nothing, been left with nothing accordingly. 

The exit had disappeared. She makes herself go all over the room, searching, feeling, before coming to stand by the steps of the tub. 

She can’t fight yet. She knows it now. She knows she’ll have to run when she can. What harm in a bath, then? She dips a grimy finger in, sits at the top of the stairs. Her body is sore anew, legs too hot, skin too used to the cold now. She lifts her hands, lets the dripping heat hit her face before wiping it, sliding lower into the water. 

It takes a while before she removes her clothes, washes them too. She waits for them to dry, doesn’t leave the bath until long after that’s done. So let her be a little pruny. She wouldn’t be herself if she couldn’t keep someone waiting when she wanted it.

 

Buffy can’t say she misses the old routine, even if she shouldn’t be enjoying this one. No fighting means clean clothes, a clean body, being able to stand when she wants it. It’s not like she’s being any friendlier. She’s saving her energy. First rule: don’t die. 

Be resourceful. Take advantage of weakness where you find it. Hela’s weakness, it seems, is Buffy’s compliance. She can give her that, for as long as it takes.

She’s lost count of the days.

 

“You’re ready to listen.” The alternative is left unsaid. Buffy keeps her silence, her words a hindrance now, and watches, waiting. Hela’s on her throne again, gaze expectant. A mirror of her own.

“Come up here.” Despite the words, it’s Hela who moves first, standing. Buffy walks slowly forward; she is pulled, sharply, and then they are both sitting, Buffy on her lap, a powerful arm around her stomach, a hand on her thigh. She can almost feel the skin through the worn denim. She starts to jerk, stops herself. “You’ve realized something, haven’t you? You’re vulnerable. That’s a start. You’re vulnerable, much as the warrior denies it.” The hand strokes circles. Buffy takes a breath. “I can make it so you’re only vulnerable to me. How does that sound?” Hela moves up with the last word and flicks between Buffy’s thighs. She gasps, as low as she can manage—she breathes, in and out. 

Vulnerable. She’s not the only one. She leans back, head on Hela’s neck, and presses into the hand. 

Buffy can learn patience too.


End file.
